Valentine Always
by michellemybelle25
Summary: Valentine's Day at the opera house...


Hello! A little Valentine's Day treat! I know I haven't posted in a long time, but this was a little something I just had to share!

A lot of you have asked about the stories I had to take down from being posted on this site. Most are available on kindle and through amazon in paperback, and the ones that are not will be out in another story collection later this year. I have a lot of Phantom goodness being published this year, including a new LONG novel and another Manifestations of a Phantom's Soul.

For more information, updates, and sneak peeks, check out my Facebook author fan page or follow me on Twitter, Instagram, and Tumblr. Links are on my profile page.

"Valentine Always"

"This is stupid!"

Cecile's shout echoed beyond the dressing room doorway before Christine and Meg reached its threshold. They arrived in time to see a small box go hurdling across the room with a cascade of paper escaping en route to the far wall.

"Must you be so dramatic?" Jammes retorted with a huff, watching the paper snowfall slowly float and tumble. "I was using those."

"This isn't drama, Jammes. It's _aggravation_!"

Christine anxiously observed the group of ballerinas collected around a cluttered table, every one diligently at work except for a flustered Cecile. It was strange to see so many lowered heads and catch not even a whisper in the air. Whatever they were doing, it was obviously serious business.

Lifting curious eyes to Meg, she softly bid, "What is all this?"

"Oh, please!" Cecile called from her spot at the head of the table. "You can't tell me that you don't know what day is almost upon us, Christine! Not with a Vicomte to impress!"

But Christine shook a skeptical head and attempted to find an indication with a glimpse of the mess scattered across the tabletop.

"St. Valentine's Day," Meg answered with a telltale giggle of excitement as she caught and squeezed Christine's arm. "You weren't among us last year to know all the fun, but…well, surely, you've heard of it. It's only the _best_ holiday on the calendar."

"Did you not say exactly the same thing a couple of months ago about Christmas?" Christine teased with a smirk.

"Best _February_ holiday," Meg corrected herself and pulled Christine by the arm she still held closer to the table full of intent scribbling and silent concentration. "It's a sort of game, you see. We make cards for the patrons, signed anonymously of course, and leave them in the boxes of our chosen Valentines. The patrons respond with gifts: flowers, sometimes little trinkets-"

"The lucky ones get jewelry," Jammes interrupted with a glance up from her elegantly written card. "I got a diamond necklace last year."

Christine noticed Cecile make a face but only after Jammes returned to her work, and Meg quickly went on, "The girl who gets gifts from the most patrons that she made cards for wins."

"Wins what?" Christine probed.

Meg gave an idle shrug. "The ability to brag about it, I suppose."

"No, no, no," Cecile interjected. "The winner is obviously the _Queen_ Valentine. That has been _my_ title for four straight years, and now you are all desperate to take it from me with your new rules and stipulations! It used to be only about the card, and now, _now_ you expect me to write _words_ inside like a melodramatic poet! I do _not_ have a brain full of flowery, sentimental rubbish and overdone hyperbole! My God, I'm a _dancer_ , not Lord Byron Shakespeare!"

" _William_ Shakespeare," Jammes snidely corrected, never looking away from her calligraphy. "And that fact is _quite_ inarguable. What was your first draft again, Cecile?"

Before Cecile had a chance to stop her, Jammes snatched the paper crumpled before her and smoothed it back out from a discarded ball.

"Give me that!" Cecile shouted, reaching for it, but Jammes was on her feet and halfway around the table.

With a chortle and unintended snort, Jammes read, " 'Roses are red, violets are blue. But flowers make me sneeze and give me hives, too'! Ha! No, Cecile, you are _definitely_ not Shakespeare by whatever name you wish to call him!"

The room erupted in laughter as every lowered head lifted, and all eyes were on Cecile's scowl of rage. "Ha, ha," she mocked back at every ballerina. "Yes, laugh at my deficiencies! You only created this rule of having to include words because you knew I'd otherwise win… _again_."

"Yes," Jammes conceded. "Because you'd _cheat_ and only attach a lock of your hair in every card as you do every year."

"That's not cheating. It's _romantic_."

"A lock of _hair_?" Jammes countered with a grimace. "It's semi-disgusting. And considering you are the only redhead among us, it's most certainly, without a shadow of a doubt, _cheating_! Words are impartial, and a lock of hair is unfair bigotry against those of us who cannot produce red locks to have a chance at beating you. If I were you, Cecile, I'd try to make my brain turn as fast as my feet and figure out something witty and attractive to write lest I steal your crown this year, O Queen Valentine."

With a perturbed growl, Cecile snatched a new sheet of paper from a pile, and glaring at Jammes, replied, "All right, then what words rhyme with 'prettiest _red hair_ you've ever seen'?"

Beside Christine, Meg was still giggling as she reported, "You girls can fight over your brood of patrons, but Christine here is guaranteed at least one."

Cecile glowered at her blank piece of paper and insisted, "Ah, yes, the dashing Vicomte de Chagny who only has eyes for opera singers who gave up their toe shoes for the spotlight. _As such_ , Christine can make him a dozen cards and garner a dozen gifts, and not one counts. This contest is among _current_ ballerinas with bruised toes to prove it!" Peeking up at Christine, she added, " _However_ you had best sit and join us because we are the best of the best when it comes to card-making, and you _need_ to make him a card. Valentine etiquette demands it."

"Yes, come on," Meg cajoled, pulling her to two vacant seats and gesturing to the wide array of accoutrements on the table.

Christine's eyes wandered over the other girls hard at work and spied their creativity. Elegant penmanship with every perfect letter composed, the addition of beads and baubles, even scraps of lace, pretty little drawings at the corners. A few girls nearly done were making pleated folds with elaborate precision and tying ribbons to close their gifts. It was almost intimidating considering Christine had never made a Valentine's card.

The holiday itself was familiar, and in fact, back when her father had been alive and healthy, he had doted on Valentine's Day and had given her little gifts every year. He'd tell her that a Valentine didn't need to be a lover or a spouse, just someone dearly cared for, someone one should appreciate. He'd ask 'Will you be my Valentine, dearest girl?' while holding out a small stuffed toy or a piece of chocolate, and she'd always considered herself so fortunate.

Valentine's day was supposed to hold feeling and acknowledgment, but glancing about at her prior ballerina comrades, she only saw infatuation and the desire for something in return.

"Christine, it's easy to make a card," Meg commented, noticing her lack of enthusiasm. "Just write something saccharine, the more embellished and gushing, the better, and I'll help you decorate if you need. No matter what you write, the Vicomte will surely know it's from you and he'll adore it."

The Vicomte…who had probably had his share of Valentine gestures in his lifetime, probably even dozens just last year before he crossed paths with her again. How many of the girls at the table with her right now had spent last Valentine's Day slipping cards into the Vicomte's box? …How many had he bought gifts for in return? Perhaps such things shouldn't have bothered her, but…they did. And he would expect a Valentine from her this year. He likely had a gift already picked out to bestow on her once the day arrived. A token of his affections.

…Erik had probably never received a Valentine in his life…

Christine reached for a piece of paper, suddenly inspired, and with grace in every motion, she began to work. Words with perfectly-executed lettering, and then she embossed gold music notes and clef signs in the blank corners.

"Ooh," Meg commented with a furtive peek at her card. "That's pretty, Christine. …But what did you write?"

Christine shook her head and refused to give in to Meg's mischievously arched golden brows. "You are not allowed to ask or to know, and may I add that _you_ have carefully covered your own message so no one catches a peek?"

Lowering her voice to a whisper, Meg leaned close and replied, "That's because mine is not addressed to a patron as the other girls would have it."

"Indeed? Such scandal, Meg Giry!"

"Quite," Meg agreed with a snicker. "My Valentine will be left for Jaquimo, dearest stagehand and meant-to-be love of my life." Sighing dramatically, she bid, "He smiles at me whenever I walk offstage…"

Christine admired Meg's wistful look, so full of hope and ardor. _That_ was what Valentine's Day was supposed to be about. Anticipation…and love.

Christine's hands shook as she quickly folded her card, tying it carefully closed with a lovely, red lace ribbon.

"How can you be finished already?" Cecile demanded with an annoyed huff as her tensed fingers crumbled the edges of her blank piece of paper.

"I just…wrote what I felt," Christine admitted, her own fingers gentle on her Valentine's card as if it were so precious.

Smirking, Cecile questioned, "And which of the Vicomte's features did you highlight? That paper is not very big, so you had to have chosen one, maybe two. His piercing eyes? His chiseled jaw line? His absolutely perfect construction? I cannot foresee you writing anything salacious, so it _must be_ words of admiration for his fetching good looks."

Christine arched one dark brow skeptically. "The appeal of physical qualities and those of the heart do not necessarily have to equate one another. I could write words that speak of caring that need not have anything to do with attraction."

" _Every_ word has to do with attraction if it's a lover," Cecile corrected with nodding lowered heads that supported her claim. "Trust me. If you have even a twinge of emotion in your heart, physical attraction _must_ exist as well. Otherwise why would you still be lolling around the boy?" With a shake of her head, she concluded, "I don't even know _why_ I'm justifying this to you. The Vicomte is _breathtaking_ to behold, and if you wish to keep him as yours, you'd best quit the saintly innocent virgin viewpoint and look with grown-up eyes, Christine. Love is not simply sentimental fairytale notions, and these Valentines are not constructed for men we only dream of happily ever after with. There's desire there, too. Figure that out before you leave the Vicomte a message full of childish illusions."

Abruptly standing from the table with her heartfelt card in her hands, Christine bid, "I…have to go. I have a lesson." And with that, she was two steps out the door.

Physical attraction… The ballerinas seemed to believe one could not _care_ for someone without the underlying spark of such attraction, but… Their eyes were conditioned to handsome patrons. Of course, they _must_ know such longings with perfection at their fingertips. If the one they cared for was a monster, though, with a face _no one_ could desire, perhaps they'd be able to find the line of separation and keep emotions in their respective categories with no overlay. A girl _could not_ desire a creature she pitied and was disgusted by. No, she couldn't, …but she could _care_.

"Christine, wait." Meg was a handful of steps behind her and made her pause her necessary escape only feet from her dressing room door. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine," she lied smoothly, and only the tremble of her hands on her card said otherwise.

"The girls…they can be far too blunt and fixed on realism sometimes," Meg concluded with a pat to her arm. "I'm more like you. I prefer to pay attention to my heart and its whispers."

"But…tell me, Meg. Do you believe you can only care for someone that you carry a physical attraction for as well?" She acted stoic, but truly, she was desperate for an answer. _Any_ answer that coincided with what her brain wanted to continue insisting. No, no, no, she did not, could not, would not desire Erik. Caring was one thing, but desire…

Meg shrugged narrow shoulders with the hint of a blush tingeing her smile. "Well, …of course there has to be _something_ like that beneath it all. But _only_ if it's true love. …Oh, what does it matter? The Vicomte is…" Her blush deepened to a redder shade. "Something fantastic to look at. _Of course_ you're attracted to him. It just sounds prettier to endorse the feelings in your heart instead, and isn't that what Valentine's Day is all about?"

Christine felt exactly that heart give a dull ache in her chest with a punch of realization she actually didn't want to know. The Vicomte was the furthest thing from her consideration and had been for awhile, but she couldn't admit to Meg what she barely admitted to herself. If true love meant emotion _and_ desire, …she was suddenly afraid because her heart was beating a contrary pattern to what her head said it should; she was only just noticing that its decided sequence had music in its background.

With another pat to her arm, Meg told her, "Valentine's Day is the day after tomorrow, and the patrons always attend that night's performance. Sneak your Valentine into the Vicomte's box before the show starts." Giggling softly, she added, "Your endeavor will be easy. You can leave it on his chair. Some of the girls are after patrons with wives in tow and have to be a bit craftier in their tactics. And I…" With a dreamy sigh, she concluded, "I just have to make sure that the _right_ stagehand gets mine. Can't have someone like Joseph Buquet picking it up by mistake! Imagine! Now _that_ would be a tragedy! My Valentine includes the word 'kiss' in multiple stanzas!"

With a cringe Christine shared, Meg gave one more smile and scurried back toward the ballerinas' dressing room, leaving Christine alone in the corridor. Alone with a heavy heart and a head in denial and a Valentine card for a murderer. She wanted to dwell on that fact, but… There was an untapped well of emotion just beneath her seemingly granite exterior. One strike in the right spot usually brought the faintest trickle to the surface; one sledgehammer to its shoddy construction, and part of her feared what would come when emotion burst out of its containment and flooded her veins in concentrated doses. She was afraid because despite every nay saying consideration in her head, her heart knew the emotions were _real_.

With a weighted sigh, she lifted her handcrafted Valentine and gazed at its delicacy while concocting a plan to sneak into Box 5 undetected. Despite her mediocre part in the current production, she was doubtless her once angel would attend to hear her sing. So…he would enter his reserved box, and what would he find waiting? This lackluster attempt at being brave and listening to the words singing in her heart… A piece of paper declaring the things her lips feared to say.

He might very well be disappointed, …or perhaps he wouldn't understand it at all. Valentine's Day was, after all, a social custom and tradition. Maybe Erik was so far above such triviality that her gift would go without recognition. Perhaps he wouldn't even realize it was from her…

Frowning with the thought, she tucked the card close to her chest, wondering if she'd dare go through with it. She wasn't supposed to care about the Opera Ghost, the creature in the darkness who'd once lied to gain entry into her life…and her heart. This card _should_ follow assumptions and be left for the Vicomte when he was the acceptable choice. Why was it easy to _tell herself_ that but so difficult to _listen_ to it?

Lifting the card back out to inspection, she returned to musings of how to enter Box 5 without ballerinas shrieking _Ghost_ and never once noticed the tension pulsating the air just above her head.

Valentine's Day… The pinnacle of nonsense in his opera house. They touted it to be about _love_ , but Erik was no fool. _Love_! Those greedy, little, tutu-ed rats were only after earning the biggest baubles money could buy and twirling idiotic patrons by the protruding parts of their male anatomy. There was no _love_ in their game, and Christine…

Erik's glaring gaze was fixed on the folded and tied declamation in her dainty hands. Ignorant girl. She'd joined the ranks of her flighty cohorts. Her paper tribute might as well have been an invitation to the Vicomte to continue fawning and lusting after her. Paper proof of an affection Erik was eager to squash beneath a well-placed heel.

Curse it all! The Vicomte was a spoiled, haughty bastard who did not deserve Christine's innocent heart. She still viewed life through rose-colored lenses, even in spite of Erik's deceptions and playing a ruined game of pretend. She saw a goodness in her Vicomte that was not there. In that regard, her ballerina friend had been right. Christine needed to open her eyes to the world and…to grow up.

Yes, Erik had witnessed the entire scene. A gaggle of crinoline pigeons crafting their longings on paper, and yes, he had overheard every word spoken. Perhaps that proved he was a monster to keep a constant watch on Christine's every motion, but…well, he _knew_ his intentions were far nobler than lustful desire. He _loved_. He could not say the same about the Vicomte.

Anger was ripples flowing over his skin, but as he watched Christine finally slip into her dressing room, he had to reassert composure and bury unpleasant feelings in the persona. Teacher first, and she'd be expecting his presence…as if he dutifully awaited her behind her mirror and had been since rehearsal's end. She didn't know he'd been following a half step in her shadow. She could only condemn such behavior.

A rush of steps, and he was exactly where she'd expect, lingering on the opposite side of her world, a plait of glass from her line of sight. He did not call to her right away. No, he watched her attempt to hide her handmade gift, sliding it between the pages of her musical score with her back half-turned. If he had not been so attuned to that pretty token, he likely would not have noticed. …And if he hadn't spent his every minute spying on her, he wouldn't know the tight ball of envy squeezing his viscera in its green grasp that the Vicomte would untie that heartfelt gift and read her secret words…

"Christine," he finally greeted a little more sharply than intended.

He watched her start with the smallest gasp, wide blue eyes darting to the mirror. Mistrust with an undercurrent of fear… He was growing so accustomed to that look, mourning days when an angel's arrival had received wonder and awe instead. Such lovely emotions on her features. He should have known better than to assume he could keep them.

With a wave of disappointment he could not quell, he worked the secret lever that separated the mirror from its frame and made a doorway into his darkness. She hesitated. …She _always_ hesitated. But with a straightening of anxious shoulders, she clutched her score to her chest and accepted his unspoken invitation, stepping into shadows and out of the light.

Not a word when he was doubtless his emotions would betray him and taint his tone in anger. No, he simply led the way below, peeking back at her on occasion by the meager beams of a solitary lantern.

So beautiful. So perfect. So coveted. Had he ever longed for something so desperately and been unable to simply take and have?

It wasn't entirely his fault for foiled attempts and lies to sugarcoat ugly truths. He was a monster; that fact had been made vivid and clear to him over and over again in his lifetime. A face like his did not inspire kindness or affection, and his repertoire of sins only fueled the flames. It was a portrait he'd sought to avoid granting her. He'd been an angel, but God had taken offense and had ripped the wings clear off his spine. And now… What was he? Not even good enough to be a worm beneath her slippered foot. It was a reality that made his heart hurt, and so he preferred the guise of arrogant Opera Ghost: untouched by any emotion and un-toppled in his structure. Such an easy part to play. Pity it was as much a lie as angel had been, and pity onward that she was equally as blind to truths.

As their journey through the catacombs ended on the threshold of his house, Erik finally affixed blatant focus on her, noting her relief with the warm welcome a fire in the hearth provided. He often forgot the actual cold of the underground, the damp chill and suspiciousness in the dark. It was his natural habitat, but she… Was it any wonder why she didn't and couldn't belong to him?

With a heavy huff, Erik stalked a path to his awaiting piano and accepted the inherent comfort of sitting before the familiar keys and grazing his fingertips to their ivory surface. They were allies and gave strength merely with contact as he stated, firm and inarguable, "You were late."

Christine shrank back beneath the penetrating glare of those mismatched eyes, one so blindingly blue and one of equaled power in green. They had a way of conjuring guilt even when none was present, as if they read every innocuous mistake she'd ever made in her life and laid cruel judgment without trial and defense.

"I…I'm sorry," she stammered, keeping trembling arms woven tightly around her score.

"Were you loitering about with the Vicomte de Chagny…again?" he demanded without sway in his ice-cold glare. She never glimpsed a blink, not even granted that split second of necessary reflex to catch her breath.

"N…no."

"No? Well, if it wasn't the Vicomte monopolizing your time and scripting you tardy for lessons, what kept you? We should already be mid-aria, and we haven't even begun to vocalize. I pray your delay had an imperative reason to put us behind in our work."

Christine's fear-fringed mind wondered if female bonding time could be considered an 'imperative reason', and cringing to guess his response, she nervously answered, "I was with the ballerinas."

"Lollygagging and gossiping with the rabble," he snapped and made her wince as if sharp words had a physical assault attached. "Wasting precious time that should be spent practicing with a gaggle of bubble-headed imbeciles who will amount to nothing in this world when they've misplaced a sense of dedication. If they spent as much time _dancing_ as they did stirring rumors and slander, they'd each be a prima ballerina in their own right."

Shifting uncomfortably on her feet, she chewed on her bottom lip and mused her next words before she spoke them. Perhaps she should prepare for a backlash just in case… "The girls were not gossiping today. They…were making cards for Valentine's Day."

Erik surveyed her nerves in a glance. In truth, he hadn't expected her to be so candid and honest, not when she typically chose the easy route of silence to any admonishing. "Valentine's Day? What nonsense," he finally retorted, hating her immediate frown. "Please tell me you have a better head on your shoulders than that and are not putting credence in the fairytale possibilities of a day on a calendar."

"It…it's about love."

"Love? No," he corrected with authority. "It's about manipulation and frivolity. I know the game the young ones play, seeking to wrangle gifts out of the wealthy patrons. You cannot tell me that _love_ factors into a single endeavor on their behalf. Truly, Christine, I'm disappointed that _you_ would follow suit."

He assumed that would be the end of it, her desolate expression lacking any flicker of argument, but to his surprise, she softly told him, "My father used to give me gifts, and there was _only_ love behind them. You may call me naïve, but I can't hold such a cynical view of the holiday. It _does_ mean something."

On any other topic, he might have appreciated her meager protest, but as it was, with a card for the Vicomte tucked away, he refused to be anything but annoyed. "And what will the _Vicomte_ give you for Valentines Day, I wonder? Certainly a bauble to send the pigeons into a frenzy. But will _love_ be attached to its bestowment? I cannot venture to believe that a man of title and privilege, of good looks and fortune, knows what _love_ means. You give him far too much credit."

"But, Erik-"

"No." He halted any further argument before it could meet the air, shaking merely with the sound of his name on her lips.

 _Love_ … Wasn't love being so overcome at the sound of one's given appellation in a beloved's voice? Wasn't it trembling simply to hear the letters on her lips and know they meant _him_? Surely, the Vicomte discounted such treasures and did not even pause when his own name was spoken. He'd likely heard it on dozens of lips and dared speak _love_ in his reply when not a single letter actually touched his heart.

Shaking his head as if he could rattle the disturbing thoughts from his mind, Erik instead ordered, sharp and concise, "We need to begin. No more prattling on about worthless holidays."

Christine knew better than to push when he was so close to temper's eruption. Nodding, she dutifully set her score on the piano's smooth surface and lifted into the proper posture to sing. A viciously struck chord, and she did not hesitate to leap after it into her vocal exercises. He continued, playing a five-note pattern that gradually climbed up by half steps, and she noted that as they ascended, his aggression dwindled and pitches sounded with less force.

Ah, music. She was well aware of its transcending powers, most especially when it came to Erik's temperament. Any miscommunications or unsmoothed edges were forgotten when music took center stage. Perhaps the Vicomte was yet a shadow in the backdrop, but she kept eyes on her teacher and was doubtless his current concentration was only her voice. Music was practically a shield and always won the battle.

Five-note patterns became full scales, branching out to the extremes of her range. Down to the lowest reaches and then to the top of her upper register, and they both found peace in the ordinary scope of their routine.

She gazed at him as he played teacher and did not consider her heart or any feelings that bordered unacceptable. No, …not until they quit vocalizing and began the aria he'd been coaching her to sing. Then as he played the introduction, giving every bit of himself to every key he touched, she could not suppress an urgent shiver.

Dear God, normal musicians did _not_ play like that! They did not tether their veins to their instrument and let pitches echo through their bloodstream. They did not wear invisible bruises from every key struck, the undeniable evidence of full consummation. But Erik surrendered in every single note he played, whether it was the meager eight bars of her introduction or a full-fledged sonata. And all she could think was that when he did, he was so very beautiful…

 _Oh God_ … Cecile had said that if she cared, desire _must_ exist as well… Physical attraction…to a murdering monster with the face of a corpse beneath his mask.

Her thoughts were so jarring that they strangled any sound she attempted to make, and she heard her entrance come and go with nary a lyric on her lips.

"Christine!" Erik snapped, smacking his palms against the piano keys and halting the aria mid-bar. "Were you intending to _sing_ today or just to try my patience? Late to your lesson, fouling entrances, distraction from every direction."

As he listed off the infractions, she drooped a defeated posture, unsure if she'd been conquered by the Opera Ghost and his temper or by her own heart. Whose victim was she truly? Her heart felt like a traitorous Judas today.

"I'm sorry, Erik. I-"

"Do _not_ speak my name," he commanded coldly, and she furrowed a fear-filled brow.

"I meant no disrespect-"

"What do you call the Vicomte de Chagny in idle conversation?" Erik suddenly demanded and dubbed himself masochistic for it. "Vicomte? Raoul? Some other ungodly term of endearment? What is he to you? …Do you ever call _him_ ' _ange_ ', as you once called me?" Anger was laced in sorrow as too may considerations he did not wish to enter the forefront decided to revolt and betray him. "…I have not been ' _ange_ ' to you since I tarnished my halo and destroyed my own wings. Angel, you used to call me… How far have I fallen in your eyes?"

He was not surprised when she gave no reply. Mistrust and fear were again in her eyes. The canvas painted in the colors of his own sins. He refused to remain the casualty of their blame, but as he looked away, his stare locked on her score, resting now open on the piano's belly. At the topmost seam of its binding, he caught sight of the smallest hint of cream. Her handmade gift for the Vicomte peeking tauntingly out at him. Likely over-laden in sweet nothings and poetry. She'd said the day was about _love_. Love in a crafted card to the perfect man with his flawless face and sinless soul…

With a growl beneath his breath, Erik suddenly leapt to his feet, watching her instinctively recoil in her spot and lift defenseless hands.

"You didn't answer my question," he dared to push, stalking a path around the piano to face her bitterly. "Do you call the Vicomte your angel? Did you make _him_ the blessing I never was for you? He already receives the smiles that were once mine alone, the pleasant thoughts, the sweet daydreams, the _love_ you once presented an angel. Does he bear the title as well? Tell me!" he commanded in a roar before deciding, "Or perhaps I should learn the answer on my own."

And with that, his hand caught that audacious and guilty corner of her hidden gift from between pages of her music and yanked it out to face its sentence and execution.

Christine only half-suppressed an impulse to reach for the card, her hand in midair, fingers stretching before she fisted them and drew back. "You…you can't," she stuttered, anxiety swelling against her ribs as her frantic eyes went from his cold stare and mocking mask to the telling token in his crumbling hand. " _Please_. Give it back to me."

"Valentine's Day was made for pretty people," he bid, the impenetrable arrogance of the Opera Ghost in place. "Look how lovely and dainty its details are! The Vicomte would know to treat such things with care, but I…I don't know how to be delicate, I'm afraid. I'm a failure at such tender touches and careful grips. I prefer to squeeze and tear, to destroy. But your Vicomte… I'm doubtless he's been the recipient of dozens of such tokens of affection from his many admirers. He'll know just how to treat yours. Another to add to the collection. Is that truly what you want, Christine? To be another attainable conquest to a spoiled fool?"

He acted aloof and plainly cruel, but she had a suspicion he was anything but, that his detachment wasn't even skin deep. No… She saw pain scribbled in invisible ink upon the smooth surface of his mask.

"Please just give it back to me," she pushed, unable to quell the unacceptable rising of tears. Her fingers had been so light in the same places his fierce grasp wrinkled and creased. Care and feeling had gone into the construction, care and feeling she was starting to regret and chastise herself for.

"Why?" he taunted, mismatched eyes reproaching. "So you'll have something to leave in the Vicomte's box on your precious holiday that will puff his ego and gain you his favor? Perhaps I am saving you from a horrible mistake. After all, you wouldn't want to confuse the poor, dimwitted Vicomte with words of _love_ when you already vowed loyalty to the music. _Our_ music, Christine. The Vicomte was not to be a thought in your head, not a stirring on the water, and yet he continues to make ripples. He is an _aggravation_ and distraction that we just cannot have."

Every sentence seemed to grow in its aggression, and her wariness grew with it. This was not her angel or her teacher before her, not the broken soul she'd actually made a Valentine card for. No, this was the Opera Ghost, and he was a murderer, and she could not stop considering that fact as she stared at the fisted hand making love its victim.

"Erik, stop this _please_ ," she begged, feeling a tear break free to travel her cheekbone.

" _No_ ," he ground out the refusal, and she flinched and recoiled a step away. "You promised, Christine. You _promised_ that music would be your only love, that the Vicomte was _nothing_ to you, that we would carry on as before the secrets were out. But you lied. Things will _never_ be as they once were. Not when you play idle games with our enemy. You wrote him into my place. How dare you?" he hissed, and more tears fell. "All I've done for you, all I've given. My only fault was a lie, and it seems it was grievous enough to make you lie in return."

"Erik, stop." Any beseeching was now whispers when she feared the sob threatening to break free. Without a thought, she inched close and made a grab for the beautiful card being strangled in the air between them. But he was quicker, jerking it above her reach with a sneer of rage that made her quake on her feet. " _Please_."

Retaining his haughty demeanor, he coldly spat, "You vowed not to encourage the Vicomte. By such terms, this token of affection is an infringing violation. Therefore I am only keeping you from being a sinner with lies on your tongue. You see, Christine, I am looking out for your eternal soul. I wouldn't want _you_ to fall to sin. To promise loyalty and then betray your own word. No, no. We couldn't have that. It wouldn't do. Because then… _then_ I'd have to go back on my own word and take care of the Vicomte myself. I am keeping us _both_ from sin," he concluded, blue and green depths so brightly wild in their justification.

Those frantic eyes landed on the card he still held, and with a growl between clenched teeth, he suddenly ripped it down its ribbon-laced center. The sound of fraying paper prefaced the sob Christine finally lost. Both sounds were so very pained and so very ugly.

One tear, then two, then three, and he snapped, "This is for your own good. You'll see. The Vicomte does not deserve your heart or your manifestation of love. He-"

"It was for _you_!" she suddenly blurted out in a sob. Her hands were shaking in the air beside her, her tears pouring over her flushed features as a wave of vertigo reminded her that she feared such bravery.

"W…what?" Erik stuttered, all feeling draining out of him in the wake of her revelation. He no longer recognized the hands clutching the severed appendages of a murdered Valentine. Everything was numb and cold.

"I made it for you…" The words were soft, almost inaudible, and with a final look from hurt-filled blue eyes, she lost a soul-deep sob and darted from the room. He watched the last glimpse of her pale pink skirt before she disappeared into the room he'd granted her in his house with a locked door as her final accent.

A vicious tremor went through his thin frame, the remnants from his outburst sliding unnoticed from quivering fingers as he silently continued to stare after her. _I made it for you_ … The admission echoed the corridors of his mind. _For you, for you, for you_ … The letters pulsed the air before striking him with a brutal burst of awareness.

"Oh…" It was as if the breath was knocked from his lungs, and as frantic eyes dropped to the jagged-edged shards of Christine's heart left in paper on the carpet, he lost a gasp and slid to his knees beside them. Trembling fingers extended, halted a long agonizing second, and then finished their trek to those leftover scraps that cried silently for their wounds.

Oh God, what had he done? His hands were now ever so careful in their touch as they gracefully collected every fragmented piece of paper. Delicate, and it was such a contrast to his previous ferocity that muscles that had been constricted in tension could not quit an incessant shake to act so calmly. Tenderness was unusual for him, but even more so was the welling of guilty regret pressing against his sternum.

His fingers worked nimbly now, unfolding and separating every shred of cream-colored paper and spreading them along the carpet before the bright glow from the hearth. Bits of broken letter stems and syllables in Christine's elegant penmanship, jumbled like the incomplete pieces of a puzzle. In its current state of disarray, it spoke in a foreign tongue, a language he could not decode. No, not until he created sense again.

Quick and adept, he began to piece the card back together, matching serrated ends and aligning cracked corners. He did not try to guess the puzzle's final revelation. No, no, not until it was put back together. What if he were wrong in his assumptions…again? What if he scripted her heart incorrectly and leapt without a net to catch his fall? He couldn't… _wouldn't_ until every letter was re-sculpted and its message clear.

The only sound permeating the space was the crackle and snap of the fire, a music of sorts to accompany his every frantic movement as his fingers dropped one piece where it belonged and another and another. Nearly a dozen irregularly-shaped bits, and at last, he felt vindicated. As if he'd soldered Christine's fragile and tangible proof of courage back together and mended his own follies in the process.

His frantic eyes scanned the message. A quick perusal first to be certain all letters made actual words and therefore proved his attempts accurate. And then…then he let his heart crawl over the imperfect page and stick irremovably to every declaration.

 _Music was your gift to me._

 _You wrapped my soul in your wings,_

 _Filled every crack and made me whole_

 _When I was nothing but broken glass._

 _I sing for you; I live for you._

 _You are my inspiration_

 _The beat of my heart_

 _The song never-ending in my mind._

 _Angel once, angel still,_

 _Angel always._

The tears falling were a hemorrhage from an internal injury. But Erik did not note their presence until his skin beneath the mask grew irritated and uncomfortable. Careful, always careful when she was the presence nearby, he lifted the edge of that accursed barrier and awkwardly swiped the wetness away, cringing with unease to bear any sort of touch against such damaged features.

Pain… But he _deserved_ pain, didn't he? Pain in a brutal blade to the heart. He deserved to have every artery cut open and bleed out onto the carpet when he'd ignorantly done the same to Christine. Cut her open, made her bleed.

His head fell into his hands as he sobbed over the shattered remnants of a Valentine. The one and only gift he'd ever been given, and he'd destroyed it beyond repair before he'd ever truly held it. He was a monster…

Christine didn't remember falling asleep, but the next coherent moment she owned was awakening in her bed in Erik's home. She was still in her gown, uncovered, and her grateful eyes drifted to the door and the lock she'd put into place. Perhaps ghosts could have surpassed meager restrictions in manmade metal, but thankfully, hers hadn't dared try. She knew if he had, she'd have found herself with a blanket. It wouldn't have been the first time…

Her eyes were heavy and ached from tears shed, but she lifted them to a bedside clock only to find an early morning hour. Slept the night in the underground. It was something she had no intention of making a habit. Only occasionally…when her companion was acting so unreasonable that she refused to ask him to return her to her own world. Then and only then should she consider using the room he'd provided for her, or so she told herself as she rose and began to get ready to face awaiting rehearsals.

It was an excuse, however trite, to pardon her from choosing a fresh gown from the wardrobe provided and indulging in the extravagances of a luxurious bath chamber. All kind gestures from a man who didn't know how to _care_.

Finally dressed and ready, she wandered to her bedroom door on shaky knees. The ground felt unstable beneath her feet, wavering and one wrong step from shattering to pieces. Such was her consideration as she anxiously unlocked and opened and crept into the hallway.

She was on guard, but the instant she entered the sitting room and scene of emotional disaster the previous night, she forgot not to be transparent. Her eyes went straight to the spot Erik had stood with his murder victim in his cruel hands, but… Nothing of that moment remained. No clue to say a heart had been torn to shreds the night before, and as her gaze drifted to the fire in the hearth, she wondered if flames had played accomplice and disintegrated the final evidence. Perhaps it was for the best…

Her heavy gaze finally caught that of her watching companion. The Opera Ghost, formal and stoic, seated before his piano and staring unblinking at her every breath. She wondered if he shared her memories from the previous night, if he harbored even an ounce of regret for his unnecessary outburst. But…he gave not a glimpse of anything deeper than prescribed arrogance, and she was disappointed. The shell was too tough and thick to crack.

"You have rehearsal," he stated without emotion. "You will be late if I don't take you back now."

That was all. No apologies, no hint of remorse, _nothing_ but seeming apathy. Perhaps it proved why he was so accomplished at sin. He could hurt and attack, unjustly destroy, and exempt himself from blame so simply. She almost hated him for that.

Nothing more. Not even a goodbye.

He left her back in her dressing room. His farewell was the final click of the mirror in its frame. And she hurt so badly from a gaping wound inside that it was torture to put on her own façade and attend rehearsal as a caricature of herself. Happy, excited for the holiday to come, giddy with her ballerina friends, listening with wide-eyed eagerness to their descriptions of their final finished cards. She couldn't help but mourn her own effort and pretended it lived on, hidden away perhaps in her vanity drawer, waiting to be delivered to its intended recipient. Something to bring joy and a swell of kind emotion; how unfair that it had instead had the opposite effect!

The day was tedious with final preparations for the next day's performance. By the time Christine escaped, she was ready for a comfortable couch, a blanket, and setting her head down, maybe closing her eyes… It was with a wave of dread that she recalled her upcoming lesson with an Opera Ghost who considered good emotions as weaknesses. He'd likely be as aloof as he had been that morning, one spark away from choosing anger as his costume for the night.

Perhaps she _should have_ made a Valentine's card for the Vicomte. There was still time after all. She could work on it once she returned from her lesson, having _no_ plan to spend more than professional time in the underground. She was almost certain she had a few pieces of blank paper in her apartment, and she could certainly collect bits of ribbons and lace and…

All musings of a card for the Vicomte vanished the second she stepped into her dressing room. Her breath caught in her throat, choking off a necessary air supply as she gaped at what awaited her notice, sitting so innocently on her vanity table.

Her steps were staggered, but she rushed to a closer inspection, too overwhelmed to decide which emotion to feel first.

It was a small, wooden box, hollowed out and carved into a stage, its top etched in trim and pillars on either side of red velvet curtains. A miniature stage, and her curiosity rushed to the forefront as it noted a tiny lever on one side. Her fingers trembled at each and every joint to delicately catch the lever between, and with an undeniable sense of awe, she dared to pull it.

A gasp escaped from un-breathing lungs as she watched a tiny carved lady emerge from one wing, moving across a track built into the stage floor. From the other side, a tiny man came to join her, …a tiny man in a mask. The figures met center stage, extending hands, and the man bent as if to set a kiss to the lady's knuckles before they returned to hiding in the wings, and the magic ceased.

Christine could not contain a soundless giggle of wonder as she pulled the lever and let the figures live again and then again. She had never seen anything like it. It was amazing and astounding…and so very sweet. It was apology and gift combined, and tears rimmed her eyes to watch two inanimate characters come together and show the emotion she and a ghost could never seem to display. They didn't have to think beyond their created path to each other on a stage with no audience to judge them for it.

From the other side of the full-length mirror, Erik watched Christine's every reaction to his gift. It was a crude model really. If he'd had more than a day to design it, it could have been more detailed and intricate, but…to gaze upon her unceasing wonder, he stopped over-analyzing and simply savored.

Had he ever glimpsed such a beautiful expression on her features? An angel had had a look to that extent, but only when he'd used his voice to earn its creation. This… Well, she certainly knew _who_ had left her such a token, and…she was _happy_ , smiling brighter than he'd ever seen. It was a portrait that brought tears to his eyes. Such delight for something _he_ had given as himself and no other more pleasant guise, and he prayed that she saw even an inkling of _love_ in two figures meeting on a stage.

For a few more minutes, he continued his silent vigil and watched her unceasing beguilement with his creation. Then though he was almost loath to break the spell, he called gently, "Christine."

Though she flinched in surprise, the smile only wavered, never faded as he opened the mirror doorway and materialized from the shadows' recesses. He watched her fingers grant one last caress to a wooden and mechanical piece of his heart before she slowly approached the darkness.

"Thank you…" The whisper came from her soul and resounded through the stone passageways as Christine stared into mismatched eyes, and for half a second, she did not see the persona in place. She saw only a man overcome with the power in her gratitude, humbled and awkward in his acceptance, so very exposed. Half a second, and then he stood poised and elegant with an austere nod and turned to lead the path below.

Everything felt…changed. Christine thought it as she followed his dark shape and the dim glow of his lantern. The world had seemed to alter ever so slightly on its axis, perhaps tilt a bit more in one direction. Not enough to cause an earthquake, but enough to shift every living creature's path by a mere inch. An inch and yet a mile on the inside. The change felt necessary, predetermined, a destiny one turn from being set into motion, and it was all underway because of a handmade gift.

 _She_ might have felt the change, but she feared a return to a usual routine and a stagnant play of teacher and student when it was the easier route to take. She worried…until she stepped into the sitting room.

Erik took his place at the piano and acted unfazed, but she was caught in a transfixed stare. Sitting on the mantel was a new frame and in it was her Valentine, its ragged pieces arranged where they belonged, only slightly askew here and there to proclaim anything had ever been amiss with the heartfelt words on the page.

"Forgive me for displaying it so visibly."

His comment jarred her from her stare as she averted wide eyes to his constant watch.

"I've never received a gift before," he quickly justified before she could speak. "I wasn't sure what proper protocol calls for. Perhaps a typical gentleman would hide such a private endearment away, tuck it in a desk drawer or between cravats to be peeked at time and again, but I… Well, I think I would wish to gave upon it every second of every day, to read its syllables over and over again until my mind is driven mad on the words. Further proof I am not an ordinary man, I suppose."

Christine studied him in the firelight. She'd been so certain that she couldn't desire the Opera Ghost, but…in the gentle glowing light with only affection in his eyes, she wasn't so sure in her claims. "Did you make me that stage as penance for ripping my Valentine's gift to pieces?" she could not keep from asking.

"No, …I made it to make you smile."

Erik glimpsed traces of exactly the smile he'd been after lingering now. The puddle after the downpour. He wouldn't be encompassed in its full shower, not _yet_. But…after tonight, he was hopeful.

With shaking fingers, he played a chord on the piano, sewing his guise of teacher back together and said, "Let's begin."

"Christine! Oh my goodness!" Meg gasped frantically as she grabbed Christine's arm and dragged her away from any eavesdropping ears. Her emerald green tutu accented in sparkling gems glistened with every flustered movement, and when standing still was impossible, Meg was practically a prism of shifting green glows.

Christine giggled softly and demanded, "What's wrong? You didn't _fall_ during your solo, did you? I heard no horrified cries from the audience."

Her teasing was met with a mocking snicker as Meg replied, "So funny you are! Ha, ha! No, I did _not_ fall…this time. But now that you've put the paranoia in my head, I will follow it by asking you if you feel like your voice is going to crack mid-arietta tonight."

A playful scowl, and Christine conceded defeat. "Now that paranoia is our self-induced, joint affliction, I insist that you tell me what your exuberance is about."

The mention had Meg skipping giddily up and down. Again, Christine was mesmerized on beams of green; it reminded her of the opera continuing onstage for a full house of eager patrons and celebrating attendees.

"I gave Jaquimo my Valentine!" Meg bid, her excitement boiling over and almost contagious. " _Gave_ it to him! As in, I walked up to him and handed it over!"

"What happened to leaving it anonymously for him to find?"

"I was too afraid after our last conversation. I kept envisioning Joseph Buquet getting it by mistake." A shudder, and she added, "I refused to take the chance, so I was brave instead!"

"So brave," Christine agreed, smiling bright. "And what did you say when you gave it to him?"

"Say…?" Meg's excitement hung in suspension and slowly collapsed as she pondered. "Huh… I think I forgot to _say_ anything. I seem to recall giving it to him and then running away as if he were the plague…" With a slow, nonchalant shrug, she decided, "No matter. He knows it's from me…even if he may not actually know my _name_ since it wasn't actually _on_ the card…nor did I speak it aloud…"

Every point was causing Meg's cringe to deepen, and trying to make it better, Christine attempted, "There's always next time."

"You mean I have to be brave _again_?"

"You should if you want him to know your name."

Meg groaned her despair and concluded, "I think I'll wait for him to be brave next time."

"You may have to wait a _long_ time for that."

Grimacing her distaste, Meg shook her golden head and changed topics. "What about you? Did you sneak your Valentine into the Vicomte's box this afternoon? You didn't forget, did you? I mean you could _try_ to do it during intermission, but that's chancy."

The hint of a smile tinged Christine's lips as she admitted, "Actually, my Valentine wasn't for the Vicomte."

" _What_?" Meg gaped before clamping a hand over her mouth and glancing toward the scene going on onstage. In whispers again, she demanded, "Then _who_ was it for? Oh my gosh! Don't tell you you're in love with a stagehand, too? …It's not Jaquimo, is it?"

Suspicion narrowed green eyes until Christine shook her head. "No, I promise. It was for…someone else, someone who's held my heart far longer than I even realized."

"That's it?" Meg squeaked in rampant disappointment. "You're not going to give me a name? A syllable? A single letter to decode? Christine, …that's not _fair_. Jaquimo is _three_ syllables and _seven_ letters! Give me _one_."

She pondered a second before with a slight shrug, she complied, "All right. E."

"E!" Meg exuberantly latched onto the clue and mused half to herself. "Enrique, Eli, Etienne, …Ernesto."

"Ernesto?" Christine questioned with a snicker of doubt. "We don't know a single Ernesto."

"Maybe you lied to distract me," Meg taunted with a matter-of-fact point of a finger. "Maybe it's actually R, and maybe it's actually _Raoul_. And maybe you're just trying to seem inconspicuous in your torrent relationship."

"It's not Raoul," Christine calmly replied. "But it _is_ someone you know, and I already gave him the Valentine, and he…he loved it very much."

Meg's sugarcoated sigh at Christine's romantic admission became a glint of determination as she tried again, "Someone I know whose name starts with E…"

Christine shook her head with another giggle. She knew better than to leave such breadcrumbs for Meg to follow, but she couldn't help herself. No one else knew Erik's name, and simply watching Meg and inevitably the other ballerinas go crazy for an answer was sure to be amusing.

"I have to go. My entrance is coming up," Christine reported, but Meg was so engrossed in her thoughts, muttering names and testing syllables that she didn't even notice.

The opera went smoothly if not memorably. No Opera Ghost accidents or anything out of the ordinary. Christine knew the Vicomte was in attendance with eyes on her whenever she was onstage, but not even once did she glance his way. It was Valentine's Day; it was supposed to be about love.

After the final curtain, Christine spent a few minutes amidst bustling ballerinas excitedly awaiting gifts to come and predicting names that started with E at the same time. When she finally broke free, her steps were buoyant and barely touched the floor on the way to her dressing room. Locked inside, shutting out intrusions, and a smile beamed on her lips as her mirror opened and the darkness invited her inside.

That smile only grew brighter, a light unto itself, as she stepped through the gateway between worlds and met the incredulous stare of two mismatched eyes.

"Such a smile…," Erik breathed, half-stunned to be in the line of that glorious grin. "I did nothing tonight to deserve it."

"Will you be my Valentine, _ange_?"

The whispered question echoed around him, but the word _angel_ pierced his heart. _Ange_ … How desperately he had missed the title.

His voice was caught behind a web of emotion, so thick that he had to allow tears to break out and create holes in its shroud before he could answer. Using a variation of her written words, he whispered back, "Valentine once, Valentine still, Valentine always."

And adoring the colors of her unending smile, he extended his hand like the inanimate character on his handmade stage and watched with wonder as she took it without pause.

"Happy Valentine's Day, _ange_ ," she bid in reply, and he led her into the shadows by the light of the love in his heart.

~ completed: January 16, 2016


End file.
